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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815511">still the greatest treasure i’ve held in my hand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bysine/pseuds/bysine'>bysine</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the wonpil variations [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Day6 (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU of an AU, Domestic, Jeju Rustication, M/M, Modern Royalty, abdication, loosely inspired by The King: Eternal Monarch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:16:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,077</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815511</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bysine/pseuds/bysine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>At twelve Younghyun hadn’t known the words to say it, but he had understood nonetheless: there were people in this world who possessed the quality of a lodestar; whose very presence, still and compelling, would be enough to chart a life against.</p><p>---</p><p>In which Wonpil is king, and abdicates. From Younghyun’s POV.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kang Younghyun | Young K/Kim Wonpil</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the wonpil variations [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>still the greatest treasure i’ve held in my hand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A remix of a remix! Remixes all the way down! Brought to you by the Joy of Drabbling(™)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>then<br/>
</b><br/>
When Younghyun was twelve he’d gone on one knee to swear an oath. </p><p>“Son,” his father had said, because he knew what it was to honour such a promise — had crossed worlds to do so. </p><p>Younghyun had looked at Wonpil, teary-eyed and clinging to Younghyun’s father because he hadn’t his own now and was glad Younghyun’s had returned. </p><p>At twelve Younghyun hadn’t known the words to say it, but he had understood nonetheless: there were people in this world who possessed the quality of a lodestar; whose very presence, still and compelling, would be enough to chart a life against. </p><p> </p><p><b>now<br/>
</b><br/>
He had called Wonpil many things: <i>seja jeoha</i>; <i>pyeha</i>. <i>Sangwang jeonha</i> once, the afternoon of the abdication ceremony.</p><p>In London, he’d slipped into the habit of diminutives. <i>Wonpil-ah</i>, he’d allowed himself, soft and tender on the drives home; in those shimmering moments when they’d both felt hollowed out with want. </p><p>He’d unlearnt it again in Corea, after saying it once and regretting how the longing had pierced them both. </p><p>Now he spoke the forgotten tongue that was all of Wonpil’s names: <i>Pil-ah</i>, <i>sweetheart</i>, <i>Wonpilie</i> <i>my love</i>. <i>Jeonha</i> only when displeased. </p><p>“You’ll wear it out,” Wonpil joked. Younghyun didn’t care.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>Wonpil at eleven had not been so old or so proud as to hold back from crying in Younghyun’s presence. </p><p>For twenty-six days he had led the public mourning, retiring at sunset to collapse in his quarters. Once it was over, he’d succumbed to a different kind of weeping, something far lonelier and more heartbreaking. </p><p>“I’m afraid to be King,” he’d hiccuped into Younghyun’s shoulder.</p><p>Younghyun had glanced helplessly at Lady Noh. </p><p>“You mustn’t be,” Younghyun had replied. He’d held on until Wonpil had fallen asleep.</p><p>The next morning Wonpil had put on the dragon robes and ascended the throne. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>Younghyun emerged from his shower to find Wonpil trying to wrestle Param into taking a bath. He wasn’t succeeding; the dog was, after all, large enough to knock Wonpil over if it wanted to. </p><p>“Oh but you’re <i>filthy</i>,” cried Wonpil, truly vexed, while Param gambolled away. </p><p>Younghyun watched for a moment before intervening. “Pil-ah, you’ll get mud on your shirt.” Which was Younghyun’s technically, but neither of them was keeping track.</p><p>“Should’ve thought about that before you took it running along the <i>batdam</i>,” Wonpil grumped, sitting crossly on the grass. </p><p>Param, contrary as it was, flopped heavily onto Wonpil’s lap. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>Wonpil at fourteen: quiet and coltish, prone to vanishing when it came time to be tutored. </p><p>“Head in the clouds, that one,” Lady Noh would say, whenever Younghyun visited and discovered the staff in disarray. </p><p>Invariably, Younghyun would find him — in the piano room, or the attic of the royal library, or once, memorably, curled up under a willow tree, obscured by its leaves.</p><p>“Hyung,” Wonpil had said when Younghyun had ducked under the branches, and held out his earphones. “Listen.” </p><p>Younghyun still remembered it: something on the piano, glittering and sweet, cresting into something bright and crashing and grand. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p><i>Gone for a walk</i>, read the note on the table. </p><p>Younghyun could still hear, faintly, chords blooming somewhere in the house.</p><p>Sure enough, he found Wonpil in the piano room, walking hat and windbreaker puddled on the floor, Param waiting patiently by his feet as he tinkered with a new section of the sonata he’d been commissioned to write.  </p><p>He would never grow weary of watching Wonpil play — the solemn focus on his face, gaze lifted far away as if the chords and melodies were something he was hearing in a distant memory and simply replicating, now, with his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>Wonpil at fifteen couldn’t afford to be petulant, so he’d been petulant only with Younghyun. </p><p>“I hardly see you,” he’d said. His pianist’s fingers had been stained from calligraphy lessons. </p><p>“You can’t just pull me away in the middle of training,” Younghyun had replied.</p><p>Wonpil, mutinous: “I don’t need another guard.” </p><p>Even then he’d been lovely, his face hard and delicate, sunburnt from clandestine soccer games after school. And Younghyun must have loved him even then, except he’d shown it the only way he’d known. </p><p>“I swore an oath,” he had told Wonpil, and jogged off to join the others. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>When they’d first arrived, Wonpil had been gaunt from two years of planning an abdication; from facing the maelstrom of public confusion until the Press Office had conjured up the words, <i>the King is in love</i>, truth as simple as it was compelling.  </p><p>After a year and change of Younghyun’s cooking — oily grilled mackerel in the fall; yellowtail in the winter; hearty <i>gogi-guksu</i> in spring and summer — Wonpil’s face finally began to fill out. </p><p>“You are too good to me,” Wonpil would murmur, lured by the smell of <i>jjigae</i> made with Palace <i>doenjang</i>, fresh clams opening sweetness into the broth. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>He’d tried to apologise, once it had become clear he’d offended Wonpil. A Pororo trinket, hard-won at the arcade, classmates looking curiously on.</p><p>“Is there a <i>girl</i>,” they’d said, and Younghyun had thought of Eun-ji whom he'd kissed curiously outside the band room; how Wonpil’s face had darkened when he'd mentioned it.</p><p>His gift had earned him admission into the piano room, where he'd stood, unsure. </p><p>“You're not on duty now,” Wonpil had said, sliding along the bench. </p><p>So Younghyun had sat, and listened to Wonpil play (“A cheeky tribute to Satie,” he’d said), his arm bumping carelessly against Younghyun’s.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>“You are too good to me,” Wonpil would murmur, when Younghyun brought him jam tea made from tangerines they had picked; when he sat down to a dinner containing the vegetables he’d mentioned to Younghyun on a whim, which Younghyun had then planted. When he’d expressed the idle urge to visit Udo and Younghyun had organised it, ignoring the local tourists double-taking at the sight of <i>Captain Kang?</i> in favour of getting Wonpil’s peanut ice cream. </p><p>“I’m not,” Younghyun would reply, and tug the brim of Wonpil’s hat lower so he wouldn’t get sunburnt; let Wonpil feed him a spoonful. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>“Is it true you’re friends with the King,” his cousins had asked. “Is he really as handsome?" </p><p>Wonpil at sixteen had no longer tried to summon Younghyun during his training; he’d vanished less, even though he would sometimes still sneak out to play football. </p><p>“When that happens,” Sergeant Shin had said, “this is how you secure the area.”</p><p>He’d learned a thousand ways to keep Wonpil safe, but nothing that would explain the inadvertent distance growing between them, why the syllables of Wonpil’s name had turned more foreign on Younghyun’s tongue.</p><p>“Even more so when he smiles,” Younghyun had replied. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>“I remember being very young and never wanting to share you,” said Wonpil, “I’d look at you and feel this furious pride that you were my hyung, that you were so good and strong and clever.”</p><p>“I mostly remember you wanting to play football,” Younghyun replied. But he knew what Wonpil meant — that fierce, childish possessiveness that had roiled into other things, later.</p><p>They played football now with Younghyun’s <i>taekwondo</i> kids, Wonpil unreasonably competitive.</p><p>“<i>Sabomnim</i>,” shouted the children, “stop running over whenever he trips!” </p><p>“I used to wish,” Wonpil said afterwards, “that you would join in instead of standing guard.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>When Wonpil turned seventeen he had again vanished, and Younghyun had spent a frantic twenty minutes combing the streets near Wonpil’s school before Younghyun’s mother had called.</p><p>He’d arrived home to find Wonpil watching daytime dramas in the living room with his mother, who, puzzled and flustered as she was, had made <i>pajeon</i>. </p><p>Younghyun had seized him by the hand and tugged him into the study.  </p><p>“Do you know how worried I was?” </p><p>Wonpil had gazed back at Younghyun. “Would you have worried had I not been King?” </p><p>“<i>Yes</i>,” Younghyun had snapped, “you absolute idiot,” and boggled when Wonpil smiled. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>“<i>Eomoni</i> says we should make <i>pajeon</i>,” said Wonpil, looking up from his phone. “Seeing as it’s raining.” </p><p>Younghyun glanced over from where he’d been seated at the low table, typing up a blog post about his potatoes. “Have you been texting with her?” </p><p>“I send her pictures sometimes,” Wonpil said. “<i>Someone </i>needs to tell her how her son is doing.” </p><p>Younghyun reached over to touch Wonpil’s ankle. “Sons,” he said, “how her sons are doing,” and watched Wonpil’s expression soften.</p><p>Then he got up and went to make <i>pajeon</i>, the sizzle of the pan echoing the sound of the rain. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>After three years’ training, they’d finally allowed Younghyun to follow the King’s engagements. He’d learned to watch the crowds while Wonpil attended openings and navigated childrens’ wards; to stand at attention as Wonpil received heads of state, movements still and deliberate in his <i>hanbok</i>. </p><p>As much as Wonpil had fled his lessons when he’d been younger, he had grown skilled by age eighteen, and deft when it came to disarming people. He had, after all, always been easy to love; even more so to the public who saw only the solemn, tragic boy-king, and who treasured every smile they glimpsed. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>While the neighbouring <i>halmeoni</i>s and <i>harabeoji</i>s accepted Younghyun as an earnest student of gardening and instructor to their grandchildren, it was Wonpil they truly adored. It was not uncommon for Wonpil to go on some errand and vanish for hours, caught up in conversation with vegetables <i>halmeoni</i> or bicycle <i>harabeoji</i>, holding their hands as they told him their joys and worries. </p><p>“How is Wonpilie,” they would ask Younghyun, whenever he saw them. “Are you taking care of him?” </p><p>“You are, hyung,” said Wonpil, over a bubbling stew of all the seafood that the fishmonger <i>harabeoji</i> had pushed into Younghyun’s basket. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>“Do you want to go to England with His Majesty?” Captain Song had asked; the barest illusion of choice. </p><p>“Yes,” Younghyun had said, and everything else had flowed from that — the applications, the briefings; then the packed bags, the flurry of goodbyes before the sleepless flight there. </p><p>Then: the two of them in the Belgravia house, after Wonpil had been settled in by Embassy staff; Younghyun installed with him. </p><p>“Did you see the piano in that other room?” Wonpil had turned and said, eyes bright with old, familiar excitement, and the frantic spin of Younghyun’s mind had resolved into calmness. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>Wonpil received several commission requests, thanks to the early competition success of ‘Brian Kim’ and the efforts of Jae’s agency. </p><p>Younghyun grew used to stretches of seeming idleness, followed by periods of Wonpil chasing the echo of inspiration into the wee hours of the morning; the mushrooming of manuscript books and music research around the house; CDs of <i>sanjo</i> recordings stacked in the unlikeliest places. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Wonpil said, when Younghyun fished a notebook from behind the earthenware crocks. </p><p>“Don’t be,” said Younghyun, who had long accepted that a house with Wonpil in it would be filled with his music. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>In London Wonpil had found first Dowoon, the cousin he'd never met, whose Glaswegian English gave way, improbably, to Busan satoori; then Jinyoung, whom he’d met at one of Dowoon's gigs they'd attended. In the ease of these friendships, Wonpil had blossomed.</p><p>Younghyun could not have begrudged them Wonpil's affection — whatever he and Wonpil had was older, complicated by duty and childhood promises. He still envied, all the same, Wonpil’s whispered confidences with Jinyoung; the careless way he reached for Dowoon. </p><p>Then Wonpil would say, <i>hyung</i>, easy as a next breath, and the jealous knot of Younghyun’s heart would unravel</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>This was how Younghyun knew when Wonpil had finished a piece: a particular sigh as he climbed into bed, seafarer sighting land, the distant look in his eyes replaced with the soft wonder of rediscovery. </p><p>"You're awake," Wonpil would murmur, a question; a request, and Younghyun would reach over to pull him into a languid embrace. </p><p>There in the harbour of Younghyun's arms, Wonpil would report his findings — hum snatches of a motif, recount his tussle with a passage, the treasures he'd uncovered.</p><p>"What did I miss," he would say softly, and Younghyun would dredge himself from sleep to answer. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>He’d always thought Wonpil beautiful, even when they were boys: his loveliness something understood, like light through leaves or the cool calloused softness of Younghyun’s mother’s hands. </p><p>When this had crystallised into desire, he couldn’t tell.  </p><p>Perhaps: the club — exposed lines of Wonpil’s collarbones, glitter on skin. The careless bob of his throat as he’d thrown back each shot; his clutching fingers after, when Younghyun had helped him home. </p><p>Or perhaps, an attrition — inelegant stretches at breakfast, shirt riding up; sprawl of limbs on the chaise, dressing gown askew. The curve of his neck as he coaxed the old piano into singing. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>Weeks of hunching over the piano took their toll on Wonpil’s shoulders and neck. So Younghyun ironed him out, easing away the knots under firm hands. </p><p>“Your hair’s getting long,” said Younghyun. </p><p>He cut it in the living room, newspaper beneath their feet. Wonpil sat quiet and still, eyes shut, while he worked. </p><p>After tidying up, Younghyun drew Wonpil a bath. Stood and looked as Wonpil stripped off his clothes — unselfconscious, getting momentarily stuck in the collar of his t-shirt. Thought, as Wonpil sank into the water, about how he would never grow tired of the sight of Wonpil’s body. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>A familiar story, during their first year in London: Wonpil had vanished. </p><p>Except this time Wonpil’s escape had been the culmination of a long-brewing storm, of having what he loved — music, freedom — arrayed before him, while knowing it was not his to take. </p><p>“I’m not going back,” Wonpil had said when Younghyun had found him, too-quickly like he’d rehearsed it. </p><p>“Let’s not,” Younghyun had replied.</p><p>In that nearby park they’d talked about their dreams for the first time, Wonpil red-nosed and trembling. </p><p>After, Younghyun had bought Wonpil a sandwich, wishing all the while that he could give him the world.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>“What would’ve happened if I’d stolen you away with me that day,” said Wonpil. </p><p>“We’d have had no money,” Younghyun replied. “You’d have ended up missing Lady Noh too much.” </p><p>“Would you have followed anyway, if I’d asked?” </p><p>Younghyun paused; caught, for a moment, in the current of that <i>what if</i>: the two of them going wherever Wonpil’s ticket had read, never mind visas, never mind their obligations. Perhaps they would have spiralled apart. Or perhaps — the sweetness of their days now making him an optimist — all paths would have led to the same outcome. </p><p>“I would follow you anywhere.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>Something had changed, after the park; their careful distance bridged. By the end of spring Younghyun had grown accustomed to the dizzying warmth of Wonpil’s affection, enough that their return to Corea — to the Palace — was a cold shock. </p><p><i>When we go back</i> became their refrain, in moments between morning briefings and audiences with ministers; while Younghyun unwrapped Wonpil’s imperial <i>kimbap</i> during the car ride to a hospital opening.</p><p>“We should picnic at the park when we go back,” Wonpil would say, resting his head against the window, sounding like a promise; like he was there already in his mind. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>“For a long time,” said Wonpil, “I hated the summer.” </p><p>They were on the beach eating watermelon they’d carried over in an ice box. </p><p>“Why is that?” asked Younghyun. </p><p>Wonpil shrugged, the collar of his shirt slipping backwards — after this slice, Younghyun would wipe his hands before swiping more sunblock on Wonpil’s nape. </p><p>“They always had me indoors, nodding off in stuffy rooms,” Wonpil said. “Or outside, wearing too many clothes. And then, in England…” he paused, leaned back onto his elbows to gaze past the edge of their umbrella at the sky. “We always left London at its loveliest.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>In autumn: a surprise. The stunned delight on Wonpil’s face had been worth the months of planning.</p><p>“Pretend I am not King and you are not my guard.” A plea dressed as a command.</p><p>He didn’t remember why he’d taken Wonpil’s hand, only that he had; remembered the sharp shock of Wonpil’s gaze. </p><p>They’d glanced away, but hadn’t let go. </p><p>That night they’d lain on too-close beds in their tiny bed-and-breakfast, talking instead of sleeping. When darkness had given way to purpling dawn Wonpil had reached across and touched his fingers to Younghyun’s. They had both fallen silent with want. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>This time, it was college students from Busan. They’d come up to Younghyun while Wonpil had been talking to the assistant about repairing his laptop. By the time Younghyun had wished them the best, the laptop had been deposited and Wonpil was gone. </p><p>Younghyun found him down the street, giving directions to a trio of Portuguese tourists.</p><p>“<i>We’ve lived here a year</i>,” Wonpil was saying in English, when Younghyun joined them. “<i>I compose music, and this is</i> —” he turned to Younghyun; seemed  to be searching for the right word.</p><p>Younghyun took Wonpil’s hand. </p><p>“Ah,” said one of the tourists, comprehending. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>After the struck match of Lisbon, they’d played with fire — fingers tangling under tables, stepping too-close into each other's space. Wonpil’s eyes always on him; every word, every soft smile a tease. Younghyun, in turn, had met Wonpil’s gaze with an answering promise of his own. </p><p>The culmination: New Year’s morning, after a night of shared drinks, his careless arm around Wonpil’s shoulders. Younghyun had picked his way past their slumbering guests to his room. Found Wonpil by the window.</p><p>“It’s cold,” he’d said. </p><p>“What will you do about it,” Wonpil had replied. Younghyun had strode over and kissed him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>After dinner, while Younghyun fed Param, Wonpil lay on his stomach looking up Portuguese words on his phone, trying the syllables for himself. </p><p>“We should go back,” Wonpil said. “For longer, this time.”</p><p>“Have you learned how to ask for directions to São Jorge Castle?” Younghyun asked, remembering the hour they’d spent wandering lost. </p><p>“I’m learning other words.” Wonpil rolled onto his back. “Darling,” he said. “Sweetheart, beloved.” </p><p>Younghyun put down Param’s bowl, and went over to kiss the palm of Wonpil’s hand; pressed it against his own cheek. “That’s not going to help with navigation.”</p><p>“We’ll navigate just fine.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>With one look, Yeeun-<i>noona</i> had apprehended everything. Closed doors had not muffled the shouting match that had ensued, words like <i>conflict of interests</i> — <i>scandal</i> — <i>subject him to all that</i>? filtering down to Younghyun and Dowoon. </p><p>Later, Younghyun had joined Wonpil where he’d been huddled in bed; had wiped his tears and kissed him knowing that soon, Wonpil would say the words they had been dreading. </p><p>They’d carried on into the start of summer. Then, in Corea, Wonpil had come to Younghyun in the heavy silks of his dragon robe — <i>unfair</i>, thought Younghyun — and said: “We can’t go on like this.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>It was becoming his favourite thing to do, to ruck up the fabric of those shirts that were once his and kiss the exposed skin, to run his hands along Wonpil’s narrow body. </p><p>The first time they’d done this Younghyun had been reverent; dumbstruck by the extravagance of it after only having old memories hoarded from that half-year of sweetness. </p><p>Even now it seemed a miracle to have Wonpil beneath him — the gorgeous, trembling whole of him; to hear the gasping edge in his breaths as Younghyun pressed into him. </p><p>He had done nothing to deserve this, nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>“How could you have hurt him so comprehensively,” Jinyoung had said to Younghyun one morning in London, while passing the jam. Wonpil had gone white, scraped his chair back and vanished upstairs. </p><p>“He’s right,” Younghyun had said, appearing at Wonpil’s door with no salve for his wounds. </p><p>“Why did you swear that oath,” Wonpil had said, “<i>why did you</i> —”, had flung himself at Younghyun with helpless fury. Younghyun had borne his tears and ugly words with punch-drunk doggedness learnt from hours on the mat. </p><p>After the storm had subsided they had cradled each other gently, like matching shards of a vase. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>Sometimes — most often in the moments after, when Wonpil had sunk into a post-coital doze, Younghyun would brush back the sweat-damp hair from Wonpil’s forehead and think about what he’d do if he could travel back to that night when he was twelve and sworn that oath. Whether he'd rush to his younger self beseeching him to <i>get up, get </i>up<i>, you don't know what you've done</i>; try to stop the hurt he’d given Wonpil along with his devotion. </p><p>Or perhaps he would let himself do the same, but say: <i>don't swear to protect him, swear you'll love him instead</i>. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>They’d been diverted from their misery by Jae, who’d lived with them on Wonpil’s invitation, issued in happier times. If he’d perceived the undercurrents of unhappiness, he’d said nothing. </p><p>With Younghyun, he’d poured drinks, Sungjin and Dowoon matching each shot. When Jae was drunk enough (which didn’t take much), he would recite tragic verses, as if to demonstrate Younghyun’s comradeship with dead sad poets. </p><p>Younghyun remembered nothing of stumbling upstairs to weep in Wonpil’s room, only the aftermath — waking in Wonpil’s bed the next morning and seeing Wonpil curled up on the sofa across the room. Registering the deliberate distance. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>A thin manuscript, handwritten, with an agony of amendments. Untitled; just a date — from the winter of their third year in London. </p><p>Wonpil played it now: a beautiful, yearning thing, the crashing storm of Wonpil’s broken heart transcribed. And yet, even then, he’d made those unbearable chords resolve into something hopeful. </p><p>“Too much Brahms,” Wonpil tutted. </p><p>Glancing up, he must have seen the twisting guilt and regret on Younghyun’s face, because he frowned. “<i>Hyung</i>.” </p><p>“The years you were hurting,” said Younghyun shakily, “because of that oath.”</p><p>“Yes,” said Wonpil. “But it was also the thing that tied you to me.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>After graduation they’d stood in the empty house, not ready to leave. </p><p>At length, Wonpil had spoken. “If you intend to keep your oath, then I intend to honour it.” </p><p>Younghyun had not trusted himself to speak. Instead he’d sunk to his knees and performed the deepest of bows — contrition or gratitude, or both. When he’d looked up, Wonpil’s eyes had been bright with tears. </p><p>In Corea, he’d taken a week off to visit his parents; spent it sleeping away the dream of the past three years. </p><p>Wonpil had smiled when he'd returned. “Captain,” he'd said.</p><p>“<i>Pyeha</i>,” Younghyun had replied.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>He left the piano room and went for a long run along the <i>batdam</i>. </p><p>While he was washing the mud off Param’s coat, Wonpil came out of the house.</p><p>“Thank you,” said Wonpil.</p><p>“Don’t thank me,” Younghyun replied. “I should’ve done this from the start.”</p><p>“You can’t stop me from thanking you,” said Wonpil, with a steel Younghyun sometimes forgot he possessed. “And you can’t stop me from forgiving you.”  </p><p>For a long moment Younghyun was unable to speak, from relief so sudden it brought tears to his eyes.</p><p>“This isn’t about the dog,” he said finally.</p><p>“No,” Wonpil said. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>The weight of longing eased, or perhaps they’d grown used to it. Each day he’d stood by Wonpil’s side. Shielded him, when needed, from the clamour and press; from curious eyes and reaching hands. Told himself it would be enough. </p><p>It hadn’t stopped him from noticing, in an audience with some talented musicians, how Wonpil had blushed at the honest flirtations of one handsome pianist. </p><p>“You don’t have to hold back, for me,” Younghyun had said, later, when Wonpil had made an idle remark about how the pianist had played exquisitely. </p><p>Wonpil had paused. Laughed, incredulous. “Are you jealous, Captain?” </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>Wonpil’s Jeju folk songs concerto had its Corean premiere at the outdoor concert hall in Jeju City, right beside the sea.</p><p>“You could’ve been in the Busan Cultural Centre,” Jae had grumbled, when he’d arrived.</p><p>“They’re <i>Jeju</i> folk songs,” Wonpil had replied mulishly.</p><p>The soloist was the same handsome young pianist who had flirted with Wonpil a lifetime ago. Now they’d sent him flowers, and Younghyun’s tangerine jam.</p><p>“What a fool you were, Captain,” said Wonpil, leaning over to kiss Younghyun on the cheek. </p><p>“Sirs, this is a <i>concert</i>,” Jae hissed, and yelped in dismay when Wonpil kissed him too.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>He’d forgotten what Wonpil looked like uncomplicatedly happy; his delighted hiccuping laugh. This strange, other Wonpil hadn’t had lessons in decorum; hadn’t had posture shaped by reluctant years of learning courtly dances. Hadn’t learnt how to obscure what he felt, for Younghyun could see every emotion that passed his face. </p><p>“You’re so much quieter and sadder,” other Wonpil had told Younghyun one evening, while mastering the flute.</p><p>When Younghyun had not answered, he had shrugged; played another experimental note. “I guess you miss him.”</p><p>“Yes,” Younghyun had said. He’d missed Wonpil even when they were standing in the same room.<br/>
<b><br/>
</b><br/>
<b>now </b></p><p>After the concert, after they’d slipped away while Jae had been waylaid by fans, Wonpil turned to Younghyun. </p><p>“Hyung,” he said. “Are you happy?”</p><p>The last time Wonpil had asked him this by the buckwheat field, Younghyun had answered honestly but not without hesitation, guilt giving him pause. What right had he to the way Wonpil looked at him each day, with so much lightness and joy? </p><p>And yet each day he awoke and received it all the same, deserving or not. </p><p>“Yes,” he said. “Are you, Wonpilie?”</p><p>Wonpil laughed. “Why do you ask questions you know the answer to?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>It had been Wonpil who had loosened the knot of their circumstances.</p><p>“In two years,” he’d told those assembled at the breakfast meeting, “I shall abdicate.” </p><p>Amidst the ensuing chaos, Yoon had turned to Younghyun. “Did you know, Captain?” </p><p>Younghyun had tried to speak around the lump in his throat, and failed. </p><p>Afterwards, he had gone to Lady Noh, who had smiled. “I cannot say I am surprised.”</p><p>“Are you disappointed?” Younghyun had asked. </p><p>“How could I be?” </p><p>Her hand on Younghyun’s had been heavy. “I expect you will honour your oath.” </p><p>“Yes,” Younghyun had said. “To my last breath.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>“Sungjin’s narrowed it down to three jewellers,” Jae said, as Younghyun was cutting the mangoes. “For the rings.”</p><p>Younghyun put down the knife before he sliced his own hand. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“Fuck," whispered Jae, horrified. "I just assumed <i>you’d </i>asked. <i>Fuck</i>. Pretend you don’t know; everyone will kill me.”</p><p>Later, after Jae had fled to the guest room, Younghyun went out to Wonpil, who was seated on the veranda giving Param a belly rub. </p><p>“What is it, hyung?” asked Wonpil, when he noticed Younghyun standing there. </p><p>“Nothing,” said Younghyun, and went down on his knees so he could kiss him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>then</b>
</p><p>One of them had mentioned Jeju as a joke, early in the two years preceding Wonpil’s abdication, not anticipating how the idea would take root. </p><p>They had moved into the house with only a bed and the piano. Half the lights had flickered alarmingly, and Param had been entering and exiting the garden through several holes in the fence.</p><p>“Should we have stayed somewhere else temporarily,” Younghyun had murmured, that first night, when they’d spread out newspapers on the floor to eat <i>jjajangmyeon</i>.</p><p>Wonpil had given a considering hum. “Do you think we should buy treats for the white dog?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>now</b>
</p><p>Now when Wonpil vanished he left notes: <i>walk, took dog.</i></p><p>Now, as always, Younghyun would find him — this time, in particular, at the <i>kimbap</i> shop near the beach. When Younghyun entered, Wonpil was sitting on a plastic stool below the wall-mounted television, scribbling something down on his notebook, Param dozing at his feet. </p><p>“He waited thirty minutes!” scolded <i>kimbap</i> ajumma. </p><p>“I’m sorry for the wait,” said Younghyun later, after they had found their usual spot on the beach. </p><p>Wonpil laughed. “We’re here now, aren’t we?” He peeled the kimbap from its aluminium foil wrapping and held it out to Younghyun.</p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>
    <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jTrGYWx8WA">♪♪</a>
  </p>
</div><b>
  <br/>
</b><b>Jeju Ilbo Online</b><p>
  <span class="u">Folk songs of Jeju reimagined, soloist Kwon Eun-taek shines</span>
</p><p>Pianist Kwon Eun-taek and the Busan Philharmonic Orchestra gave an unconventional outdoor concert at the Tapdong Seaside Concert Hall last Saturday, to a sold-out Jeju City crowd. This was also the Corean premiere of Brian Kim’s <i>Folk Songs of Jeju Concerto</i>, which was awarded the Special Mention award at the — Composition Competition in the United Kingdom last year. </p><p>The concerto has been credited for its inventive use of Western classical conventions in service of conveying the rich colours and texture of the Jeju folk music tradition. Eschewing a merely sentimental transcription of Jeju’s well-known folk melodies, Kim, who publishes pseudonymously, has instead reimagined them against the grand tapestry of the island’s history and the generations who have lived there. </p><p>While this appears to be Kim’s debut composition, the concerto is ambitious in scope, beginning with a soaring first movement that introduces the theme of <i>Odolttogi</i>, before a poignant and meditative second movement. The third movement reintroduces <i>Odolttogi</i>, among other tunes, in a sophisticated interplay between the orchestra and soloist, before moving into an expressive and playful conclusion. </p><p>Kwon, who rose to fame as the first Corean to win the International Chopin Piano Competition in 2015, proved himself more than capable of conveying the lyricism and yearning of the piece even in the more technically demanding passages, employing a delicate yet energetic touch and showing a sophisticated comprehension of the work. </p><p>The concert was also attended by <i>pansori</i> singer and Order of Cultural Merit recipient Park Jaehyung, who hosted a group of fifty students who were part of the Royal Music Trust’s programme for access to arts education. Park and Kwon are two of several Corean musicians providing mentorship to young musicians under this programme, which was established in 2017 by the former King Wonpil. </p><p>—-</p><p>
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</p><p>[image] [image]<br/>
<b>crown_watch</b> In the background of @pansor.eaj and @euntaek.kwon’s pics — a wild (and blurry) King Wonpil and Captain Kang appear [heart eyes emoji]<br/>
#incognito #sangwangjeonha #kingwonpil #coreanroyalty #captainkang #kangyounghyun #royalguard</p><p><b>ohcaptain</b> They were there?? I love that H.M. seems to have permanently stolen that cardigan of Captain Kang’s</p><p><b>maximus95</b> they were probably there for the young musicians’ programme, but keeping it understandably low key. also, does anyone remember the interview after the chopin competition when euntaekie said the person he most wants to play a piano duet with is his majesty? he must have been thrilled!</p><p><b>bizbizbiz</b> [heart emoji] [heart emoji] [heart eyes emoji]</p><p><b>yexu</b> They’re holding hands as they slip away :’)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me: like oh hey is yh having some kind of forgiveness arc<br/>forochel: he IS<br/>me: wow this is so different from wonpil's happy meander</p><p>One of the joys of trying a different perspective is just like… unearthing a whole new layer of story I guess. The past flashbacks are clearly the AU cousin of forochel’s <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24921901">myeongok</a>, which you should absolutely read if you haven’t already.</p><p>Huge thanks to forochel as always for all the encouragement and chatficcing, for indulging my rampant insertion of nam joo hyuks into this universe (euntaekie!), and for actually figuring out the timelines/years for this au of an au. &lt;3333</p><p>Title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8y0w91ehIo">The Rescues - My Heart With You</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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